


winter songs

by Issay



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Canon Backstory, Canon Compliant, Christmas, First War with Voldemort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mirror of Erised, Multi, Second War with Voldemort, War with Grindelwald, Wizarding Traditions (Harry Potter), Yule
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 17:04:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17084270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Issay/pseuds/Issay
Summary: The Mirror cannot lie. It will show you the deepest, most desperate desires - but it lacks the power to grant them.Or, five times Albus Dumbledore looked into the Mirror of Erised.





	winter songs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RainyMonday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainyMonday/gifts).



> Dear,  
> I have to be honest - this story was supposed to be something completely different but then it grew a mind of its own and took over. I wish you peaceful, relaxing Christmas (or Yule :)) and hope this little gift brings a smile on your face <3

“ _ **You were unsure which pain is worse -- the shock of what happened or the ache for what never will.”**_

  
―Simon Van Booy, “ _Everything Beautiful Began After_ ”

  


1.

"I no longer remember the shade of her eyes," Albus says quietly, staring into the flames. He doesn't have the courage to look in Aberforth's direction, he knows all too well the depth of anger and disappointment he would find on his brother's face. It's a mistake, saying this to him but Albus has been alone in this house - the same house they have once shared with their mother and sister, now both dead and buried and neatly forgotten by most of the residents of Godric's Hollow - and it feels almost perversely good to say this out loud to another person.

Aberforth is quiet for a long time before getting up from the chair he was sitting in and reaching for his outer winter robes. The leftovers from their Yule dinner are still on the table, waiting under stasis spells on their mother's finest china set to be carved up and packaged for later. The younger of the Dumbledore brothers ignores them completely, seemingly focused only on getting his gloves onto correct fingers. Once he's ready to leave, Aberforth rests a heavy hand on Albus' shoulder.

"You have your books and your education, like you've always wanted," he says in a deceptively calm voice. "Maybe you'll find a way in them to see her eyes again. Happy Yule, Albus."

His fingers dig into Albus' muscle for a split second before they're gone, and with a quiet 'pop' so is Aberforth. Dumbledore mindlessly watches the flames until they die out, and their warm glow settles in coals, and cold winter morning starts to paint the sky outside his cottage the softest pink. Only then does Albus rise from his armchair, in some sort of a feverish dream, and reaches for the books. With a hiss, the last candle burns out.

Three days later Albus Dumbledore knocks on Nicolas Flamel's door.

"I need to make use of your workshop," he says brightly as soon as the alchemist opens, eyes alive with frantic light, fingers closing and opening again and again and again. "And perhaps some gold, if you have any spare around."

Nicolas lets him in and worries long into the night. Perenelle kisses his brow tenderly.

"The boy is grieving, my love," she says sweetly, frail fingers combing through silver, spider web-like strands of his hair. "Let him. I believe no one has given him the luxury in the longest time; such is the fate of brilliant minds."

Albus emerges from the workshop one day late in January, when the streets of Paris are buried in deep snow and frost has painted all of their windows with the most fantastic patterns Perenelle copies into her knitting. Both Flamels look up from where they sit in the kitchen corner, each with a book and two cups of steaming tea between them. They don't drink it, of course. But Perenelle likes the scent.

"I'm done," he says and steals a still warm cookie from the platter. Perenelle gets up, pats his shoulder patiently and hands him another one. She has baked them just for him, Nicolas knows, but doesn't say it - he's sure Albus hasn't yet noticed.

"Congratulations," he says instead, and starts a discussion whether or not Albus should publish if not the fruits of his labor, then at least the research he has done. There isn't much known about enchanted mirrors, after all.

Neither Nicolas nor Perenelle ask Dumbledore what he sees in the mirror he has crafted. They have both heard him mutter the strangest phrase, ' _e_ _rised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi_ '. It was Perenelle who reversed the letters, who understood what Albus was searching for in Flamel's library.

They know Albus well enough to know when questions are not welcome.

When they go to sleep - they tire quickly, these days, the weight of centuries pressing them closer and closer to the ground - Albus returns to the workshop and stands in front of his creation, for now still covered with red velvet curtain. He steels himself, takes a deep breath and lets it out. Only then he's ready to reach and draw the fabric away.

Ariana's eyes are the shade of the bluest afternoon sky in the summer.

Her smile is wide and beautiful, and her face is alight with excitement the way it rarely was when she was alive. She's waving to him and throwing kisses, so lovely in her blue dress and with blue ribbon in long blonde hair. Ariana, his little girl in blue and gold. Forever frozen in time, never to grow old.

But she's not alone in the mirror, no. A tall figure stands just behind her left shoulder and when Albus finally allows himself to tear his gaze from Ariana's face, he's met by Gellert Grindelwald's gaze.

It's the Gellert he remembers from their long walks through the fields and conversations in the middle of the night. It was a thing they used to do, Albus remembers fondly. If one of them couldn't sleep, he would slip into the other's house and wake him, and they would sit on the rooftop until the first light of the morning, talking about anything and everything. That summer felt like it would never end, like it could last a lifetime.

Albus swallows the bitter regret sitting on the tip of his tongue. He wants to apologize, to rage, to cry out all of the ache. But it would be pointless. The mirror can only show him what he desires most - never give it to him.

Albus closes his eyes and rests his forehead on the cool surface, fooling himself for a moment that he can feel Ariana's cheek next to him, and Gellert's hand on his shoulder.

 

2.

Albus believes in rituals.

How could he not? How could one not if they spent their formative years in a place such as Hogwarts, place built on soothing, repetitive rhythms of the year. First Sorting, then Feast, followed by Samhain and beginning of Quidditch season. Then come Yule celebrations and New Year is marked, and once that is done with, Ostara holidays quickly follow. Beltane marks the beginning of the season for hurried exam preparations and before June is over, the cycle is ready to repeat itself as it has from the day the Founders have established the school. Yes, Albus Dumbledore believes in rituals because he was raised to believe in the inherent magic locked in them. So have been generations before him and so will be generations to come after him.

Gellert used to laugh at him for that. It lacked malice, his laugh; it was filled with almost fond exasperation of someone who knows better but is magnanimous enough to allow others to believe in what they will. He used to...

No, Albus reminds himself, it's not safe to think about those days. They have passed.

"You're always so sad come Yule," says a kind old voice around him and Albus has to smile, turning around. Galatea Merrythought slowly but steadily comes to sit beside him at Ravenclaw's empty table. Drafty, cold corridors of Hogwarts are terrible on her joints, but the witch only scoffs when Dumbledore offers to summon her an armchair. "No, don't be stupid, dear boy. If I wanted a bloody armchair, I would have transfigured myself one."

She looks at the Great Hall with a soft smile on her age-worn face. Midnight has long passed, leaving the Hall covered in shadows and sprinkles of fairly lights. Tops of the Christmas trees - a Muggle addition to the wizarding celebrations of Yule was school board's way of bowing to the wishes of Muggleborn and half-blooded populace of Hogwarts - disappear somewhere in the dark sky of the ceiling.

"It's going to snow," Albus says quietly, watching the stars and puffy, pink clouds. "My mother used to say that if the sky is this color in the winter, that's how you know a snowstorm is going to come."

"The aches in my hip agree with your mother's assessment," agrees the elderly witch. "I can't help but notice that you swiftly ignored my comment."

Albus twitches uncomfortably, and his fingers start to mindlessly play with the buttons of his robe. Galatea waits him out, humming some carol under her breath.

"Yule always reminds me how much I've lost," he says eventually. The witch who from mentor moved to friend over the years they have spent teaching side by side, accepts it and there is no pity in her eyes.

"Yes, it tends to do that to people. And you have a decision to make, don't you."

It's not a question.

"I cannot fight him," Albus admits quietly, with defeat apparent in his voice. "Though I'm not even sure if I would like to. I know he is doing terrible things and that he needs to be stopped but why does it have to be me, Galatea? Aren't there braver ones who could take this burden? Why do they all come to me and expect I will merrily go and fight their wars? I am just a teacher."

"You are a genius." Galatea's fingers, twisted with age and pain, somehow find their way between his and Albus looks up, surprised at his own tears. "They cannot comprehend your mind but they see the kind of magic you use, they recognize their own faults and your worth. Albus, I would like nothing more than to protect you from this terrible choice but you have already lost him. The boy you remember is gone. You can only help him by sparing him the terrible end others would inflict on him."

Galatea gently squeezes his fingers before slipping away, and leaves the Hall with a whisper of her favorite magenta robes. Albus sits in the falling snow for a long time before his feet take him down a familiar path. The school is quiet; even the biggest troublemakers snuggled in their cozy beds, dreaming of Christmas presents and snowball fights. Dumbledore loves Hogwarts like this, when he feels he's the only one awake. Who knows, maybe he is.

Before he knows it, he's standing in front of the mirror, hand hovering over the red velvet of its curtain. For the first time in years Albus is not sure what he will see. He's not sure of anything anymore.

"It used to be easier," he mutters to himself for courage and pulls the fabric aside, prepared to meet Ariana's eyes.

She's not in the frame, and it shakes him to his core.

Instead, Albus sees himself and Gellert, hand in hand and wand in wand. The Pact, he realizes. The moment when it all went wrong, oh how he wishes he could... He stops the thought again. He doesn't have to think it, really. After all, he sees it in the mirror: Gellert handing him the vial with the softest of kisses pressed onto his lips.

Resigned, Albus lets go of the velvet and allows it to cover the mirror again. Outside, the snow is covering Hogwarts ground with a thick, fluffy duvet as the castle continues to dream.

  


3.

They're still celebrating when Albus leaves the Ministry and limps through the quiet, sleeping Hogwarts. He slips into his quarters unnoticed by anyone, save for maybe a portrait or two. They don't bother him and he knows they will keep his secrets; they never failed in over three decades. After all, Hogwarts loves him - it keeps the stones under his feet smooth, and shadows in the corridors leading to his rooms dark.

He's exhausted.

Both in body and spirit, Albus feels like he's centuries old as he crumbles down onto the sofa in front of the fireplace. He lacks the will to start a fire, and he's too warm, and freezing at the same time, and there's a sob trying to break free from his tightly constricted throat. He's still in the somber gray duelling robes, soot and blood clinging to him along with the scent of ozone left by the colliding spells and breaking shield charms. The Elder Wand slips from Albus' numb fingers and lands on the fluffy carpet. He'd like to break it.

Eventually, after the coming months pass, he'll feel excitement coming from holding one of the Hallows in his hand. But not yet. Not for a long time.

It was never a matter of choice, not really. Once Newt helped to break the vial containing the Pact, once Albus learned about the terrible lie Grindelwald told the young Obscurial, there was no turning back.

"Oh, Gellert," he whispers, head in his hands, staring at the Wand blankly. "We never stood a chance, did we."

Dumbledore doesn't know how long he sits like this, before he finally gets up and sheds torn clothing, for once leaving it on the floor for the house elves to sort out. Exhaustion covers him like a shroud but there is no way he'll be able to sleep, not without the sweet assistance of Dreamless Sleep anyway. No, sleep can wait until Albus' head doesn't feel like it's filled with clouds of memories, of face, and touch, and shadow of a kiss. He wishes for a pensieve, and makes a mental note to obtain one as soon as it's possible.

He's a bloody war hero now. It shouldn't be too hard.

The thought is so ridiculous Albus can't help but snort, and once he starts to chuckle, he cannot stop. From that it takes only moments for hysterical, helpless laugh to fill his bedroom, and suddenly Dumbledore finds himself on his knees, with one hand on the bedding, not even sure whether he's laughing or weeping anymore. It feels cathartic, it feels like he's letting it all out, sobbing into the dark red duvet, Gellert's blood still under his fingernails, his voice beginning Albus to kill him, still ringing in his ears.

It lasts minutes, or maybe hours - Albus doesn't know and doesn't really feel the need to know. He feels empty and numb once the tears stop flowing, and his throat feels raw. It's fine. It doesn't really matter.

Slowly and carefully Albus gets up and in stumbling, uncertain steps goes into a small room just off his bedroom. It's a tiny space, filled only by the Mirror of Erised hanged on the wall facing the door. When he pulls down the Gryffindor-red velvet, Albus sees his own eyes first, red and puffy. Then, the mirror blurs and he has to sigh.

In front of him stands Gellert - but not the man with insanity in his eyes, not the monster Albus has defeated and handed over to eager jailers now residing in the halls of Nurmengard. No. It's the Gellert he remembers, the one he dreams about in the rare instance he remembers his dreams. Already not a boy, but also not yet a man: Gellert of that one summer they shared. The one who has so beautifully talked about fairy lights playing on the water in Venice, who has promised Albus to guide him through cobblestone streets in Prague and chase wind on the shores of Norway. He sees the Gellert who carelessly tangled fingers in Albus' hair and who has shown him the new way of seeing the world.

Dumbledore sees the Gellert who is long dead; or maybe he was never even real.

Albus presses a kiss to his fingers and touches the mirror gently. Then, he turns and limps out of the room, not looking back.

 

4.

His steps are light and quick as Albus soundlessly passes through Hogwarts corridors under a Chameleon spell. It's late in the evening and the school is filled with life - with war raging outside its thick walls and heavy wards, many parents decided to keep their children in the castle for the holidays. Albus doesn't really remember the last time Hogwarts was this full... No. No, he does.

The Mirror now resides in a small chamber off the beaten path, in one of those mysteriously unnoticeable corridors Hogwarts is full of. Dumbledore has purposefully put several floors between himself and the artifact: he has found over the years that the temptation of seeking comfort in the Mirror's illusions is too much, even for him. He used to spend entire nights, sitting in front of it, not feeling how uncomfortable his position was or how drafty the room has become. No, he was unable to tear himself away and that's when he decided to put it as far as he could.

Albus, after all those decades, knows well he's not strong enough to destroy what he considers to be his greatest wizarding achievement. The greatest - and the most terrible at the same time.

But tonight he needs the kind of comfort a good book, glass of Firewhiskey and Muggle chocolate cannot offer him. No amount of watching the snow fall will help. He feels age sit heavy in his bones, making each step a bit slower, and he feels sorrow in each beat of his tired heart.

"It's been such a long war," he sighs to himself, standing in front of the Mirror for the thousandth time. "I don't even know how long ago it has began."

"Don't worry, Headmaster," a young voice answers him sweetly and when he turns, Pandora Fairchild smiles in his general direction from the windowsill. "Don't worry. What will be, will be."

The girl's pale silvery eyes make him a little unsettled like always in the presence of Seers, as he removes the spell cloaking him. Ravenclaw's sixth year prefect slides down and lands softly on her feet with perfect balance - Albus knows that Hogwarts makes sure the girl doesn't hurt herself. The castle loves her ferociously, this bright young woman with absent-minded smile and hands covered in ink. Pandora is one of the favorites; Pandora, who always sees things the way they may come to be.

"Shouldn't you be in bed, miss Fairchild?" he asks with a certain degree of amusement. It's getting closer to midnight, her prefect rounds have ended some time ago if she had any, but maybe an interesting insect turned her attention away, or she chatted with one of the ghosts. Pandora, in some ways, makes Albus think of Newt Scamander and his soft smiles that always reach eyes.

"I was on my way," she explains, cascade of golden hair falling from the messy bun just above her neck, "but then I had the most peculiar craving for hot chocolate. And then I found myself here, with this pretty Mirror of yours."

She gathers empty mug Albus hadn't previously seen, and a book on Arithmancy. Then she looks at him again, still smiling.

"What does it show you, miss Fairchild?" Dumbledore asks before he can think better of it - after all it is such an intimate question. But Pandora's smile stays on her face, serene and absent-minded as always.

"I see my daughter, bright like summer moon's light. I see flowing rivers and fields in bloom. The regular things, I suppose, Headmaster. We all could use some summer right now."

"Yes. Yes, you seem to be right, miss Fairchild."

She nods, completely not surprised, and heads towards the door. But before opening it, Pandora turns once again and looks at him with certain sadness.

"Don't dwell on things we cannot have, Headmaster. There's simply no use. Have a good night, sir."

And with that, she's gone. Albus watches the door for a few moments more, uncertain what their conversation was really about - like usually with Seers, he supposes. Then he turns towards the Mirror.

Gone is the velvet drape: it stands before him in all of its glory, though covered in thin layer of dust and bearing the signs of disuse but still magnificent. The sight of it takes Albus back to the feverish weeks of creating it; on seeking solace and absolution but finding only empty visages. Yet here he is again, this time chasing only the small moments of relief he can find. He looks at Gellert's face - or the imagined version of how he would look now, decades later, and allows himself not to think about the Christmas meeting of the Order. For a few precious minutes Albus doesn't think about dead friends, about scared children he used to teach and determined eyes of those who resigned themselves to die in this long, strange war.

Albus steals time by watching his most desperate desire, a desire he would be ashamed had anyone learned of it play out in front of his eyes: himself, standing in the cell door of Nurmengard, handing Gellert a wand. Fighting Voldemort side by side, healing each other's wounds and sharing this terrible weight that now rests solely on his shoulders.

' _What will be, will be_ ,' says Pandora's voice in his head. Albus knows that images before his eyes will never come to pass. It's fine. He has made his peace with the knowledge that happiness was never meant for him.

 

5.

He doesn't leave his office any more, not really.

The curse takes a lot of out him - even breathing is a bit more of an effort than it used to. The heavy weight is slowly crushing him and the previously long hours of his day now flicker and die terrifyingly fast, and there is so much left to do. Albus spends most of it with Minerva and Severus; he regrets he cannot tell his Deputy what will happen but she suspects something is going to happen sooner rather than later. He could never lie to her for too long. And Severus, this bitter boy, the martyr, Albus needs to make sure he knows his role. This is his magnum opus. This is going to be his legacy, hopefully overshadowing what happened on that day in Austria, when he stood facing Gellert, ready to die himself.

Dumbledore would like to think fate of the world does not depend on one man's ability predict future movements on the chessboard of wizards and witches - but it does.

Albus preserves his energy as much as possible. His time is running out and he knows it, truly, it's better this way. Dumbledore prefers the mercy of a swift Avada to the slow decay of his body that now takes away the little joys he had. Sometimes, he misses his midnight walks through the school but most of the days he's too tired to slip out of his armchair and slowly shuffle through the corridors.

Not tonight, though.

It's Yule, and the air seems to be charged with a kind of ancient, long forgotten magic that stirs something deep within him. A sweet old sorrow swells in Albus' mind again, or maybe it's the coming death that pushes memories to the forefront of his mind.

"Don't worry, Fawkes," he mutters to the phoenix when the bird makes a squawk at the sight of Headmaster heading out. "I still can go for a walk should I choose to."

The castle is already mourning his passing. Shadows are low and respectful, the stone warm beneath his feet. It even looks to Dumbledore that corridors are shorter than they used to, and the staircase is all too eager to shift and take him exactly where he needs to go. Room of Requirement is deserted at this hour, all of the conspirators safely tucked away in their respective dormitories. Albus passes the Vanishing Cabinet, carelessly only half-covered by the boy working tirelessly on his own doom. He walks around the piles of forgotten ties, and walls built with books, and a particularly picturesque hill of socks - all of them without a pair, as far as he can tell.

And there, in the middle of this labyrinth, stands the Mirror.

It's been a couple of years since Albus saw it for the last time: after it served its purpose drafting Harry and his friends into the oncoming war, it was abandoned in the place where all lost things go. Maybe one day a student will come, wishing for something that cannot be granted - and the Room will give him a small, simple chamber with only the Mirror covered with red velvet curtain.

For now, though, it is seen only by the Headmaster. With his one good hand he gathers the fabric together and away, looking at the familiar frame - and then at a familiar face.

The Gellert he's seeing is different now - it's Grindelwald he has never seen in life. At peace, dressed in white, and somehow ageless: somehow preserved, like an ant in a drop of amber. This Gellert smiles warmly at Albus and nods to him, the way one does to an old and dear friend. This Gellert's hand rest on the shoulder of a summer sky-eyed young woman in blue dress. Her eyes have the shade Albus has forgotten.

We're waiting, they seem to tell him.

It's a dream, he knows. Gellert is still alive, no doubt eagerly awaiting death as only it will release him from the prison of Nurmengard fortress. But the two of them: the beloved ones and the lost ones at the same time, waiting for him somewhere at the end, is his dearest dream; his most desperate desire.

"Soon," he promises quietly and, after a moment, lets the curtain go. It whispers of snow and passing of the time as it falls, covering the Mirror for the last time.

 

**Author's Note:**

> "Pandora Lovegood" tag is a bit misleading - Lovegood was her husband's surname, so I came up with another since she's still a student and not yet married. Sorry about that!


End file.
